The Historian

  “‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘We seem to have brought you a lot of trouble, Professor, right down to importing this menace to your door.’ I outlined for him briefly our encounters with the corrupted librarian, including my sighting of him in front of the Hagia Sophia the night before.

  “‘Extraordinary,’ Turgut said. His eyes were alight with a grim interest, and he drummed his fingertips on the top of his desk.

  “‘I have a question for you, too,’ I confessed. ‘You said in the archive this morning that you’d seen a face like his before. What did you mean by that?’

  “‘Ah.’ My erudite friend folded his hands on his desk. ‘Yes, I will tell you about this. It has been many years since, but I remember it vividly. In fact, it happened a few days after I received the letter from Professor Rossi explaining to me that he knew nothing about the archive here. I had been at the collection in the late afternoon, after my classes—this was when it was housed in the old library buildings, before it was moved to its present location. I remember I was doing some research for an article on a lost work of Shakespeare, The King of Tashkani, which some believe was set in a fictional version of Istanbul. Perhaps you have heard of it?’

  “I shook my head.

  “‘It is quoted in the work of several English historians. From them we know that in the original play, an evil ghost called Dracole appears to the monarch of a beautiful old city that he—the monarch—has taken by force. The ghost says he was once the monarch’s enemy but that he now comes to congratulate him on his bloodthirstiness. Then he urges the monarch to drink deeply of the blood of the city’s inhabitants, who are now the monarch’s minions. It is a chilling passage. Some say it is not even Shakespeare, but I’—he slapped a confident hand on the edge of his desk—‘I believe that the diction, if quoted accurately, can only be Shakespeare’s, and that the city is Istanbul, renamed with the pseudo-Turkic title Tashkani.’ He leaned forward. ‘I also believe that the tyrant to whom the spirit appears was none other than Sultan Mehmed II, conqueror of Constantinople.’

  “Chills crawled on the back of my neck. ‘What do you think the significance of this could be—where Dracula’s career is concerned, I mean?’

  “‘Well, my friend, it is very interesting to me that the legend of Vlad Dracula penetrated even to Protestant England by—let us say—1590, so powerful it was. Furthermore, if Tashkani was indeed Istanbul, it shows how real a presence Dracula was here in Mehmed’s day. Mehmed entered the city in 1453. That was only five years after the young Dracula returned to Wallachia from his imprisonment in Asia Minor, and there is no certain evidence he ever returned to our region in his lifetime, although some scholars think he paid tribute to the sultan in person. I do not think that can be proved. I have a theory that he left a legacy of vampirism here, if not during his life then after his death. But’—he sighed—‘the line between literature and history is often a wobbling one, and I am not an historian.’

  “‘You are a fine historian indeed,’ I said humbly. ‘I am overwhelmed by how many historical leads you have followed, and with such success.’

  “‘You are kind, my young friend. In any case, one evening I was working on my article for this theory—it was never published, alas, because the editors of the journal to which I submitted it proclaimed that it was too superstitious in content—I was working well into the evening, and after about three hours at the archive I went to a restaurant across the street to have a little börek. You have had börek?’

  “‘Not yet,’ I admitted.

  “‘You must try it as soon as possible—it is one of our delectable national specialities. So I went to this restaurant. It was already dark outside because this was in winter. I sat down at a table, and while I waited I took Professor Rossi’s letter out of my papers and reread it. As I mentioned, I had had it in my possession only a few days, and I was most perplexed by it. The waiter brought my meal, and I happened to see his face as he put down the dishes. His eyes were lowered, but it seemed to me that he suddenly noticed the letter I was reading, with Rossi’s name at the top. He glanced sharply at it once or twice, then appeared to erase all expression from his face, but I noticed that he stepped behind me to put another dish down on the table, and seemed to look at the letter again from over my shoulder.

  “‘I could not explain this behavior, and it gave me a most uncomfortable feeling, so I quietly folded the letter up and prepared to eat my supper. He went away without speaking, and I could not help watching him as he moved around the restaurant. He was a big, broad-shouldered, heavy man with dark hair swept back from his face and large dark eyes. He would have been handsome if he had not looked—how do you say?—rather sinister. He seemed to ignore me throughout an hour, even after I’d finished my meal. I took out a book to read for a few minutes, and then he suddenly came to the table again and set a steaming cup of tea in front of me. I had ordered no tea, and I was surprised. I thought it might be a sort of gift, or a mistake. “Your tea,” he said as he put it down. “I made sure that it is very hot.”

  “‘Then he looked me right in the eyes, and I cannot explain how terrifying his face was to me. It was pale, almost yellow, in complexion, as if he had—how to say?—decayed inside. His eyes were dark and bright, almost like the eyes of an animal, under big eyebrows. His mouth was like red wax, and his teeth were very white and long—they looked oddly healthy in a sick face. He smiled as he bent over with the tea, and I could smell his strange odor, which made me feel sick and faint. You may laugh, my friend, but it was a little like an odor that I have always found pleasant under other circumstances—the smell of old books. You know that smell—it is parchment and leather, and—something else?’

  “I knew, and I did not feel like laughing.

  “‘He was gone a second later, moving without any hurry back toward the restaurant kitchen, and I was left there with a feeling that he had meant to show me something—his face, perhaps. He had wanted me to look carefully at him, and yet there was nothing specific I could name that would justify my terror.’ Turgut looked pale himself now, as he sat back in his medieval chair. ‘To settle my nerves, I put some sugar into my tea from a bowl on the table, picked up my spoon, and stirred it. I had every intention of calming myself with the hot drink, but then something very—very peculiar happened.’

  “His voice trailed off as if he almost regretted having begun the story. I knew that feeling all too well, and nodded to encourage him. ‘Please, continue.’

  “‘It sounds strange to say it now, but I am speaking truthfully. The steam rose up from the cup—you know how steam swirls when you stir something hot?—and when I stirred my tea, the steam rose up in the form of a tiny dragon, swirling above my cup. It hovered there for a few seconds before vanishing. I saw it very clearly with my own eyes. You can imagine how I felt, for a moment not trusting myself, and then I quickly gathered my papers, paid, and went out.’

  “My mouth was dry. ‘And did you ever see that waiter again?’

  “‘Never. I did not go back to the restaurant for some weeks, and then curiosity came over me, and I went in again after dark, but there was no sign of him. I even asked one of the other waiters about him, and that waiter said the man had worked there only a short while, and he did not know his last name. The man’s first name, he said, was Akmar. I never saw any other sign of him.’

  “‘And did you think his face showed that he was —’ I trailed off.

  “‘I was terrified by it. That is all I could have told you at that time. When I saw the face of the librarian you have—as you say—imported, I felt I knew it already. It is not simply the look of death. There is something in the expression —’ He turned uneasily and glanced toward the curtained niche where the portrait hung. ‘One thing that bludgeons me about your story, the information that you have just given me, is that this American librarian has progressed further toward his spiritual doom since you first saw him.’

  “‘What do you mean?’

  “‘Wh
en he attacked Miss Rossi in your library at home, you were able to knock him down. But my friend from the archive, whom he assaulted this morning, says he was very strong, and my friend is not so much slighter than you. The fiend also was already able to draw considerable blood from my friend, alas. And yet this vampire was out in the daylight when we saw him, so he cannot be yet completely corrupted. I conjecture the creature was drained of life a second time either at your university or here in Istanbul, and if he has connections here he will receive his third evil benediction soon and become forever undead.’

  “‘Yes,’ I said. ‘There is nothing we can do about the American librarian without being able to find him, so you will have to guard your friend here very carefully.’

  “‘I shall,’ Turgut said with grim emphasis. He fell silent for a moment, and then turned to his bookcase again. Without a word he pulled from his collection a large album with Latin letters across the front. ‘Romanian,’ he told me. ‘This is a collection of images from churches in Transylvania and Wallachia, by an art historian who died only recently. He reproduced many images from churches that were later destroyed in the war, I am sorry to say. So this book is very precious.’ He put the volume into my hand. ‘Why don’t you turn to page twenty-five?’

  “I did. There I found a spread across two pages—a colored engraving of a mural. The church that had once housed it was displayed in a little black-and-white photograph, inset: an elegant building with twisted bell towers. But it was the larger picture that caught my attention. To the left loomed a ferocious dragon in flight, its tail looped not once but twice, its golden eye rolling maniacally, its mouth spewing flame. It seemed about to swoop down to attack the figure on the right, a cowering man in chain mail and striped turban. The man crouched in fear, his curved scimitar in one hand and a round shield in the other. At first I thought he was standing in a field of strange plants, but when I looked carefully I saw that the objects around his knees were people, a tiny forest of them, and that each was writhing, impaled upon a stake. Some were turbaned, like the giant in their midst, but others were dressed in some sort of peasant garb. Still others wore flowing brocades and tall fur hats. There were blond heads and dark; noblemen with long brown mustaches; and even a few priests or monks in black robes and tall hats. There were women with dangling braids, naked boys, infants. There was even an animal or two. All were in agony.

  “Turgut was watching me. ‘This church was endowed by Dracula during his second reign,’ he said quietly.

  “I stood gazing at the picture for a moment longer. Then I could bear no more and I shut the book. Turgut took it from my hand and put it away. When he turned to me, his look was fierce. ‘And now, my friend, how do you intend to find Professor Rossi?’

  “The blunt question went into me like a blade. ‘I’m still trying to piece all this information together,’ I admitted slowly, ‘and even with your generous work last night—and Mr. Aksoy’s—I don’t feel we know much. Perhaps Vlad Dracula put in some kind of appearance in Istanbul after his death, but how can we find out if he was buried here, or still is? That remains a mystery to me. As far as our next move goes, I can only tell you that we are going to Budapest for a few days.’

  “‘Budapest?’ I could almost see the conjectures racing across his broad face.

  “‘Yes. You remember Helen told you the story of her mother and Professor—her father. Helen feels strongly that her mother might have information for us that Helen’s never drawn out of her, so we’re going to talk with her mother in person. Helen’s aunt is someone important in the government and will arrange it, we hope.’

  “‘Ah.’ He almost smiled. ‘Thank the gods for friends in high places. When will you leave?’

  “‘Perhaps tomorrow or the day after. We’ll stay five or six days, I think, and then come back here.’

  “‘Very well. And you must carry this with you.’ Turgut stood up suddenly and took from a cabinet the little vampire-hunting kit he had shown us the day before. He set it squarely in front of me.

  “‘But that is one of your treasures,’ I objected. ‘Anyway, they might not let it through customs.’

  “‘Oh, you must never show it at customs. You must hide it with the greatest care. Check your suitcase to see if you can put it in the lining somewhere, or better yet let Miss Rossi carry it. They will not search a woman’s luggage as thoroughly.’ He nodded encouragement. ‘But I will not feel easy in my heart unless you take it. While you are in Budapest, I will be looking through many old books to try to help you, but you will be hunting a monster. For now, keep it in your briefcase—it is very thin and light.’ I took the wooden box without another word and fitted it in next to my dragon book. ‘And while you are interviewing Helen’s mother, I will be digging around here for every possible hint of a tomb. I have not given up on the idea yet.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘It would explain very much about the plagues that have cursed our city since that period we have been speaking of. If we could not only explain them but end them —’

  “At that moment the door to his study opened and Mrs. Bora put in her head to call us to lunch. It was as delicious a meal as the one we’d eaten there the day before, but a much more somber one. Helen was quiet and looked tired, Mrs. Bora handed around the dishes with silent grace, and Mr. Erozan, although he sat up for a while to join us, was unable to eat much. Mrs. Bora made him drink a quantity of red wine, however, and eat some meat, which seemed to restore him somewhat. Even Turgut was subdued and seemed melancholy. Helen and I took our leave as soon as we politely could.

  “Turgut saw us out of the building and shook our hands with all his usual warmth, urging us to call him when we knew our travel plans and promising us unabated hospitality on our return. Then he nodded to me and patted my briefcase, and I realized he was referring silently to the kit inside. I nodded in response and made a little gesture to Helen to tell her I’d explain later. Turgut waved until we could no longer see him under the lindens and poplars, and when he was out of sight, Helen put her arm wearily through mine. The air smelled of lilacs, and for a minute, on that dignified gray street, walking through patches of dusty sunlight, I could have believed we were on vacation in Paris.”

  Chapter 37

  “Helen was indeed tired, and I reluctantly left her to nap at the pension. I didn’t like her being alone there, but she pointed out that broad daylight was probably protection enough. Even if the evil librarian knew our whereabouts, he was not likely to enter locked rooms at midday, and she had her little crucifix with her. We had several hours before Helen could call her aunt again, and there was nothing we could do to arrange our trip until we received her instructions. I put my briefcase into Helen’s care and forced myself to leave the premises, feeling I would go stir-crazy if I stayed there pretending to read or trying to think.

  “It seemed a good opportunity to see something else in Istanbul, so I made my way toward the mazelike, domed Topkapı Palace complex, commissioned by Sultan Mehmed as the new seat of his conquest. It had drawn me both from a distance and in my guidebook since our first afternoon in the city. The Topkapı covers a large area on the headland of Istanbul and is guarded on three sides by water: the Bosphorus, the Golden Horn, and the Marmara. I suspected that if I missed it, I would be missing the essence of Istanbul’s Ottoman history. Perhaps I was strolling far afield from Rossi once again, but I reflected that Rossi himself would have done the same with a few hours of enforced idleness.

  “I was disappointed to learn, as I wandered the parks, courtyards, and pavilions where the heart of the Empire had pulsed for hundreds of years, that little from Mehmed’s time was on exhibit there—little apart from some ornaments from his treasury and some of his swords, nicked and scarred from prodigious use. I think I had hoped more than anything to catch another glimpse of the sultan whose army had battled Vlad Dracula’s, and whose police courts had been concerned about the security of his alleged tomb in Snagov. It was rather, I thought—remembering the old men’s gam
e in the bazaar—like trying to determine the position of your opponent’s shah in shahmat by knowing only the position of your own.

  “There was plenty in the palace to keep my thoughts busy, however. According to what Helen had told me the day before, this was a world in which more than five thousand servants with titles such as Great Turban-Winder had once served the will of the sultan; where eunuchs guarded the virtue of his enormous harem in what amounted to an ornate prison; where Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent, reigning in the mid-sixteenth century, had consolidated the Empire, codified its laws, and made Istanbul as glorious a metropolis as it had been under the Byzantine emperors. Like them, the sultan traveled out into his city once a week to worship at Hagia Sophia—but on Friday, the Muslim holy day, not Sunday. It was a world of rigid protocol and sumptuous dining, of marvelous textiles and sensuously beautiful tile work, of viziers in green and chamberlains in red, of fantastically colored boots and towering turbans.

  “I had been particularly struck by Helen’s description of the Janissaries, a crack corps of guards selected from the ranks of captured boys from all over the Empire. I knew I had read about them before, these boys born Christian in places like Serbia and Wallachia and raised in Islam, trained in hatred of the very peoples they sprang from and unleashed on those peoples when they reached manhood, like falcons to the kill. I had seen images of the Janissaries somewhere, in fact, perhaps in a book of paintings. Thinking about their expressionless young faces, massed to protect the sultan, I felt the chill of the palace buildings deepen around me.

  “It occurred to me, as I moved from room to room, that the young Vlad Dracula would have made an excellent Janissary. The Empire had missed an opportunity there, a chance to harness a little more cruelty to its enormous force. They would have had to catch him quite young, I thought, perhaps to have kept him in Asia Minor instead of returning him to his father. He had been too independent after that, a renegade, loyal to no one but himself, as quick to execute his own followers as he was to kill his Turkish enemies. Like Stalin—I surprised myself with this mental leap as I gazed out at the glint of the Bosphorus. Stalin had died the year before, and new tales of his atrocities had leaked into the Western press. I remembered one report about an apparently loyal general whom Stalin had accused just before the war of wanting to overthrow him. The general had been removed from his apartment in the middle of the night and hung upside down from the beams of a busy railway station outside Moscow for several days until he died. The passengers getting on and off the trains had all seen him, but no one had dared to glance twice in his direction. Much later, the people in that neighborhood had not been able to agree on whether or not this had even happened.